


One Olive, One Onion

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4729202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why Arthur and Eames don't like each other.</p><p>(Pre-canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Olive, One Onion

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as my Week 8 entry for Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing, but I soon realized that it would require a lot more than 250 words if I was going to do it properly. 
> 
> ladyprydian is an awesome beta (and title-comer-upper), as always.

There were four pieces of information about Benjamin Powell, Reclusive American Billionaire, that Eames had been able to dredge up:

1\. Although there were no photos of him, he was reported to be handsome.

2\. He had a USB drive that he carried with him wherever he went.

3\. His drink of choice was a dry martini with one olive and one cocktail onion. (Apparently when you were a reclusive billionaire, you could be fussy about your odd cocktail preferences.)

4\. He was staying at the Four Seasons in Budapest this weekend.

This wasn’t nearly enough information to plan any kind of extraction, so Eduardo had encouraged Eames to do some of the “hands-on” research that was his specialty. Rumor was, there was another extraction team going after Powell as well, so time was of the essence. Which is why Eames was sitting at the bar in the restaurant on the first floor of the Budapest Four Seasons, taking tentative sips of his drink and trying not to wince.

(He was really more of a whiskey sour man, himself.)

It didn’t take long before a man sidled up to the bar next to him and ordered a dry martini — ”Hendricks, please” — with one olive and one cocktail onion. Eames cast a sidelong glance at the man, watching him fiddle with a wad of cash while he waited for his drink. Eames leaned over into his space and shifted into his American accent.

“A man after my own heart.”

The man turned his head to look at Eames, confused, and Eames held up his own drink in explanation. The man’s face softened and he smiled slightly. As he turned to face Eames more fully, Eames caught the outline of a USB drive in his breast pocket. _Bingo_.

“I didn’t expect to find another American here,” Powell said, moving closer to Eames as he accepted his drink from the bartender.

“Nor did I,” Eames replied. “What brings you to beautiful Budapest?”

“Oh, just business. Nothing interesting. You?”

“Same,” Eames said. Judging by the casualness with which Powell was entering his personal space, this was going to be easier than he expected. And also more enjoyable. (The grapevine wasn’t lying when it said Powell was handsome.) “Though my trip just got much more interesting.”

Powell chuckled at that, dimpling in a way that almost made Eames feel guilty. But he thought about the other extraction team nipping at his heels, and he plowed onwards. He continued flirting with Powell, letting his smiles and barely suggestive remarks escalate into playful touches. He patted Powell’s arm as they discussed their favorite hotels; he put a hand on Powell’s shoulder as they bemoaned the state of modern-day air travel. Eventually, under the pretense of leaning forward to speak into Powell’s ear, he slipped his hand inside Powell’s jacket and lifted the USB drive.

He ignored another pang of guilt as he pocketed the drive and choked down the rest of his drink. “Well,” he said, putting his glass back down on the bar with a clink as the olive and cocktail onion rattled, “I’d better be going. Early morning tomorrow, you know.”

“Oh.” Powell looked slightly taken aback at Eames’s sudden change in demeanor, but then his expression shifted into something resembling… relief? (Eames regretted his earlier pang of guilt.) “Right, me too. It was nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Eames said, and he stood up and strode out of the bar. As he crossed through the hotel lobby, he took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair he’d “liberated” it from a few hours earlier when he'd discovered the restaurant was jacket-required. Rolling his shoulders, he got into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor.

When he got back to his room, he booted up his laptop. He pulled the thumb drive from his pocket and held it up to the light, examining it briefly before he jammed it into the computer. “Let’s see what you’ve got on here, Mr. Powell,” he muttered to himself as he sat down at the desk.

***

Arthur walked into the bar, casting a speculative eye around the dim room, trying to figure out if Benjamin Powell was there.

His team was desperate for information about the man — _any_ information, Donatella had said as she’d ushered Arthur out of the Hungarian warehouse with a key card for the Four Seasons. Even with Arthur’s superb research skills, he’d only been able to uncover a few facts about the man: his fondness for dry martinis made with Hendrick’s gin and served with one olive and one cocktail onion; the vague assessment that he was “attractive in a distinctive way” (but, seriously, not even a _single_ photograph — was the man Amish?); his lodging while he was in Budapest; and that he always carried a thumb drive around on his person (so probably not Amish).

That last item, of course, had been Arthur’s first avenue of inquiry  once he’d arrived at the hotel; he’d spent a not-inconsiderable sum bribing someone to bribe someone to bribe someone to steal the thumb drive. But when the drive had passed back through the chain and into Arthur’s possession, and he’d managed to break through the surprisingly sophisticated encryption, the only thing on the drive turned out to be porn. 

Gay porn, specifically. Lots and _lots_ of gay porn.

While it hadn’t _exactly_ been what Arthur was looking for, which had been patents, or blueprints, or confidential files, or — well, really anything other than porn, however artistic and tastefully curated — it _had_ cemented Plan B. He’d removed the drive from his computer, grabbed the contents of a small envelope from his suitcase, and  left his hotel room, heading straight for the lobby.

Now he was standing at the periphery of the bar, looking for someone who could plausibly be the mark. He prayed that he wasn’t too late, that Eduardo’s team hadn’t managed to make contact first. Eventually his gaze fell on a man sitting at the bar, swirling his drink thoughtfully.

McQueen jacket, so wealthy — _check_. Attractive — _check_. Drinking a martini with one olive and one cocktail onion — _check_ and _blech_.

Arthur strode up to the bar, edging through the crowd to grab the spot next to Powell. When the bartender turned to him, he ordered his (unfortunate) drink, slightly more loudly than necessary. He fiddled with his wad of _forints_ as he waited.

He barely held back his smirk when a low voice close to his ear said, “A man after my own heart.”

He feigned confusion, making Powell gesture to his drink; then he graced Powell with a slight smile and turned fully towards him. “I didn’t expect to find another American here,” he said, stepping closer to Powell and peeling off a few bills to exchange for his drink. As he returned his change to his pocket, he palmed the tiny GPS tracker he’d pulled from his stash.

After that it was simple; he indulged the man in small talk, occasionally bestowing a grin that former lovers had described as “captivating.” Powell practically made it _too_ easy, returning his flirtatious touches so readily that even if Arthur hadn’t been _trying_ to plant the tracker on his jacket it might have accidentally wound up there anyway. 

He felt a little bit guilty; Powell seemed like a nice guy, and he certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes. But according to Donatella, Eduardo’s team was breathing down their backs, so Arthur took advantage of a particularly intimate pat to his chest and brought his hand up to touch Powell’s wrist, quickly pressing the tracker inside the seam of his jacket sleeve.

Mission accomplished, he intended to continue their conversation (to avoid arousing suspicion, if nothing else), but Powell suddenly drained his drink and stood abruptly, saying that he needed to go because he had an early morning.

“Oh,” Arthur said, a little surprised. Though it was a relief that he wouldn’t have to find a way to end their interaction himself; really, this Powell guy was a fantastically cooperative mark. As Powell left the bar, Arthur waited a few minutes, and then he headed up to his own room.

Arthur loaded the tracking program on his computer. “We’ve got you now, Mr. Powell,” he said to the empty room.

***

Two hours later, a man with bright red hair and glasses strolled into the restaurant, looking around uncomfortably. The bartender wondered why so many people were ordering a martini with one olive and one cocktail onion tonight. _Must be some new American thing_ , he thought, as he wiped down the bar.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea if the "plot twist" actually came as a surprise to anyone, but I had a lot of fun planning this story out and writing it! I think of it as a kind of bizarro "Gift of the Magi."


End file.
